Anything
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sequel to Scars. The words came out before Sherlock could stop them, rough and uneven. "When you said you'd do anything, did you mean it?" Set during HLV, spoilers for series 3. Warning: references to past rape and torture, adultery.


**Title:** Anything  
**Author:** Mildredandbobbin  
**Pairing: **John/Sherlock  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Status:** Complete  
**Contents/Warnings: **Tw: rape, Comfort Sex, References to previous rape, Past Torture, Adultery (although they are on a break), Angst, Smut  
**Word count: **5902  
**Summary: **Sequel to Scars. The words came out before Sherlock could stop them, rough and uneven. "When you said you'd do anything, did you mean it?"  
Set during HLV, spoilers for series 3.

* * *

**Anything**

"Sit," said John, in the tone that spoke to Sherlock of sand and heat and burly men jumping to attention. Sherlock gave a token snort of resistance and then plonked down on the stool John had indicated.

"I'm fine!" The bullet wound had barely twinged when Harding had tackled him.

"That's what you said when you convinced me you were all right to go to Leinster Gardens. You went into cardiac arrest, remember?" John said tightly. These days John said everything tightly. "Shirt off," he ordered over his shoulder as he retrieved the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard.

Sherlock sighed and his fingers fell to the buttons of his shirt. John set the kit down on the table and pulled on a clean pair of surgical gloves, setting out a clean dressing.

"Jacket, shirt, all the way off," John said tersely. When Sherlock blinked he elaborated. "You fell backwards down the stairs, idiot. I need to check you properly."

Sherlock hesitated for a micro-second before shrugging out of his suit coat and then pulling his shirt completely off. Why should it matter if another medical professional saw the mess on his back?

John splayed the fingers of his right hand on Sherlock's chest as he peeled back the bandage with his left. Calm, professional, clinical. It was comforting this behaviour, so reminiscent of Before. The way John treated him so normally, so devoid of the dreaded pity, it made him wonder if perhaps John might have forgotten. Sometimes Sherlock was able to forget.

"You've only been out of hospital two bloody weeks," John muttered as he gently prodded at the wound.

Sherlock grunted. Ridiculous. If he needed assistance he would ask for it. Still, he humoured John, because John still cared about things like this. He still cared if Sherlock lived or died and that was more than he had hoped for after Mary's betrayal. Normally with those sort of deductions, the ones about lying spouses, Sherlock would make his revelation and sweep out, loathed as the messenger, leaving someone else to pick up the pieces. Except this time it had been John, and John's pieces.

John lived in pieces now. A piece here at Baker Street and a piece at the home he'd had with Mary. He would stay here tonight, he always did after a case, maybe two nights, maybe a week, but inevitably, he would return to haunt Mary with his reproach, until such a time that the anger got too much and he came back again.

_'Case?'_ he'd text and Sherlock would find one, find anything, and John would appear at the door at 221B, tightly wound with resentment and hurt, and together they would run through London with all the best danger and violence until the pained anger tightening John's expression had eased.

Tonight, George Harding had earned a broken nose and a fractured wrist when John had pulled him off Sherlock.

John examined his stitches and then reapplied a new bandage. Doctor Watson at work was a breathtaking sight. Competent hands, efficient, capable, a small frown of concentration on his brow. John's head was bent low, a closeness that made Sherlock quieten, acutely aware of the exact distance between each point of John's being and his bare skin, of each exact skin cell where John's fingers deftly made contact. He could see the 45 extra grey hairs John had gained since last time he'd had an opportunity to be this close.

John finished re-dressing his wound (practically healed now, fuss over nothing, but Sherlock would not begrudge this intimacy) and looked up. For a moment their eyes met. John's pupils dilated and Sherlock felt the pads of his fingertips press through latex against his bare skin, just below his pectoral muscle. He thought he could feel the beat of John's pulse echo through his fingertips into his flesh.

John breathed in once, through his nose, and the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his thin bottom lip.

Sherlock swallowed. In moments like this he thought John might want him. In moments like this _he_ wanted – subconsciously for far too long, but now, with full awareness.

John looked away, smoothing over the edges of the bandage adhesive. He stepped back, his fingers grazing with one last brush against Sherlock chest. He pulled off the gloves and tossed them in the bin.

"Your back," he said gruffly as he turned around.

Sherlock flinched. He ought not to mind. He'd been examined and poked and prodded plenty of times since…_then. _He sat up, stiff and tall. Foolish to be so missish. John had seen scarring before, he was a doctor, would think nothing of it. He lifted his chin.

John gave him an odd look, then realisation dawned and incongruously his expression softened. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. No, John, no, not pity—

John cleared his throat. "Sorry, I didn't think. I don't have to if—"

"It's fine." It was Sherlock's turn to be terse.

John hesitated and Sherlock huffed. "I said it was fine." He wished John would hurry up, he felt exposed.

"All right, good." John moved behind him. Sherlock felt John's warm hands frame his back, then brush gently over the various scrapes Sherlock knew he'd accumulated tonight. Competent fingers glided over a slightly sore spot. "Does that hurt?"

"Not much."

"You've got a couple of bruises, nothing to worry about."

"Good."

John didn't move, his hands still on Sherlock's skin. He could feel every point of contact. He could feel John's breath against his shoulder. He was aware of every inch of his own nakedness. Yet John's touch was not unwelcome. John's attention was not alarming. Sherlock felt himself lean into it, ever so slightly.

"They did a number on you, didn't they?" John said in a quiet voice.

Sherlock swallowed, unused to this soft tone, accustomed now to John's icy silences, John's brusque responses. It made his pulse race and he felt curiously out of his depth. Something tingled low in the pit of his stomach.

John swept his fingers lightly across Sherlock's back, just under shoulder blades. It shouldn't have felt like sparks of light under his skin but it did.

"It healed well. Whoever fixed you up did a neat job." John traced his index finger along the longest scar. A prickle of gooseflesh rose in its wake and Sherlock twitched.

John's hand was gone.

"Sorry."

_It's fine_, Sherlock wanted to say. _I'm fine._ And part of him, treacherously, _don't stop touching me._ And that thought was more confusing than he'd have liked.

"Hey." He felt John's hand on his shoulder, warm, firm, his thumb rubbing in small circles. It should have been comforting, was meant to be, Sherlock was sure, but it made tiny sparks of electricity form and skitter under his skin.

John was watching him, expression inscrutable. Too hard to read, always too hard to read. Too much bias in the variables. Too close. Sherlock's pulse beat a tattoo in his throat, in his chest. He could feel John's body heat, every inch of his skin was sensitive and aware.

John's tongue darted out to lick at his lips again.

The words came out before Sherlock could stop them, rough and uneven. "When you said you'd do anything, did you mean it?"

John stilled, motionless, wary. Sherlock looked away, over John's shoulder.

"What is it?"

Sherlock's heart thudded. "Have sex with me."

John was too silent. Sherlock's pulse beat in his ears, once, twice, three times.

"Why?"

He hadn't since– not that he'd _wanted_ to anyway— but his faux relationship with Janine had shown him one thing, sex was more alarming than he'd like it to be.

_Because I've wanted you since I met you and I never realised it until it was too late,_ he wanted to say. _Because I've never wanted anyone before and probably never will again. Because I trust you and I need this and I want to remember _you_, not some piss-stained fatigues and combat boots, and this is the only opportunity I'll get. Because you'll forgive Mary and I will never have another chance_.

_Because you are angry all of the time and I feel a ridiculous urge to hold you and make you happy. _

"I need to overwrite certain memories. I've been unable to delete certain events," he said instead. Some of the truth. Part of it.

"And you want—"

Sherlock met John's eyes.

"You. Yes."

John's gaze dipped to his lips and back to his eyes, searching his face. Sherlock gripped the sides of his seat tightly. Don't touch, don't reach.

John looked away, lips pressing into a tight line, before seeking Sherlock's gaze again.

"You're serious." It wasn't quite a question.

Sherlock's lips parted, the word thick on his tongue. "Yes."

"What about Janine?" John asked.

"I…didn't want to take advantage…and I didn't…want."

* * *

The need in Sherlock's expression made a frisson of desire shaft low in John's stomach. He was too aware of Sherlock's close proximity, his naked torso exposed to his gaze and touch, the exact distance it would take to meet Sherlock's mouth—

God help him, Sherlock was serious.

John swallowed, his pulse racing and mind swirling. Sherlock was propositioning him. _Sherlock _wanted to have sex with _him._ For completely the wrong reasons and at completely the wrong time.

John had said _anything_, those few months ago. That he'd do anything Sherlock needed. Before _Shezza_, before the shooting, before he discovered Mary's betrayal. John had meant it then (had he meant _this _though, maybe, probably, fuck, yes, he had) and maybe he owed it to Sherlock now. He wasn't stupid, Mary hadn't needed to shoot Sherlock, she could have knocked Magnussen out first, talked to Sherlock then and there. He'd read Sherlock's charts, he knew he'd flat-lined, kill shot or not, earlier ambulance call or not. His wife, the woman he was supposed to trust and love, the woman carrying his child, had shot the man he adored, the man he'd only just got back from the dead. He'd turned over and over the actions of the woman he loved against the most important man in his life until it literally made him scream, but Sherlock had excused her, deduced she hadn't meant it and like some fucking Vulcan, that logic had apparently been enough. And _then_ when he and Mary were sitting there fucking _bickering_, Sherlock had gone into cardiac arrest.

God, who knew, maybe it would help, Sherlock wasn't going to sit down with someone like Ella and talk through the trauma he'd experienced. Jesus, those scars—Maybe he did just want to do it with someone he knew and trusted, to get past it—

God, no, no, no, what was he thinking? He couldn't, _shouldn't,_ even be entertaining the idea. It was the worst possible reason to have sex. Sherlock didn't know what he was asking – The emotional, psychological consequences—And John was still married, even if it was a fucked up mess and apparently in name only right at this moment.

"I don't think it works like that, Sherlock," he began, trying to be kind, gentle.

Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"I asked for a fuck, not pity." He jerked away and it was only then that John realised he'd been fondling his shoulder.

The silence strung out between them.

"On my desk," said Sherlock suddenly, the words tumbling out. "My blood test results, if that's what you're worried about. It's been over twelve months since the assault and I've been cleared for HIV. I know you've been tested recently, and you haven't had sex with Mary since then-"

John's face heated with the truth of Sherlock's statement. Of course he knew.

"Sherlock," John said firmly and touched his fingers to his chest, just above the bandage. Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, eyes widening. He looked at John searchingly, and there it was again, that _need_, something lost and vulnerable.

John could feel Sherlock's rapid heartbeat under his fingertips. He thought of what Sherlock _hadn't_ experienced, and worse, what he _had_. Empathy and guilt mixed with a surge of protectiveness and settled heavily in the pit of John's stomach. The thing was, he really wouldn't mind.

Sherlock suddenly looked away, he sighed, deflated.

"John I—"

John shook his head. This was a bad idea, the worst of ideas, but since when did he let that stop him where Sherlock was concerned, when Sherlock wanted something?

"Shut up, don't talk, don't even—" He would do this, for Sherlock. Just for Sherlock. If he didn't get off, then he wasn't using anyone, he wasn't cheating on anyone. He was just—it was a favour. Just a favour. If it helped... "You're going to come with me and I'm going to make you feel good, very good, and then we're not going to talk about this in the morning and you're not going to tell Mary, understood?"

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to his. He nodded slowly, two spots of colour blooming on his cheeks (and God, could he stop looking at John like that, as if he couldn't believe his fucking luck, when it was John who should be counting his lucky stars).

John took a breath and nodded and then turned and marched down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, not waiting to see if Sherlock would follow.

* * *

Sherlock hesitated, suddenly nervous. Ridiculous, this was what he wanted. He squared his shoulders and followed John into the bedroom.

"Get on the bed," John ordered when Sherlock shut the door behind them. "And promise me, if I do anything, anything at all that you don't like, that triggers you, or hurts you, or makes you uncomfortable you fucking tell me to stop, got it?"

Sherlock felt his face heat, why did John have to be so humiliatingly conscientious? He scowled and rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

Spine stiff, his hands fell to his trousers and he stripped down to his pants without preamble, flopping onto the bed with studied casualness.

John had gone quiet and when Sherlock risked glancing up, he saw John staring at him, indigo eyes dark and a look on his face that made Sherlock feel discomposed. He attempted a cocky smirk but it must have come out wrong because John sucked in a breath and Sherlock's heart pounded as John's gaze gained the fierce protective edge that meant John might commit homicide for him.

* * *

John took a breath, rendered motionless by the sight of all six-feet of semi-nude Sherlock Holmes in tight black pants. Waiting for him. In bed. Trying hard not to look incredibly nervous. Oh God, no pressure. Right about now John wanted to cause a world of pain to the sick fucks that had made someone as bloody incandescent as Sherlock Holmes afraid to be touched.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly went dark and John rose to the challenge. He was going to make this so fucking good.

He pulled off his cardigan and unbuttoned his shirt, trying very hard to ignore the fact that Sherlock was watching him. It was Sherlock. His best friend. This – there was nothing to be self-conscious about. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, pulled off his socks. And then risked a glance at Sherlock, splayed out on the bed for his fucking delectation. Christ.

"Lube?" he asked.

Sherlock blinked and frowned and then leaned over, all elegance and long lean lines, and fished a tube out of his bedside table. He tossed it on the bed.

John climbed onto the bed and knelt beside him. Sherlock released his top lip from between his teeth and blinked up at him.

"How would you like me?" he asked, his already deep voice husky.

John cleared his throat. "This is fine. If it's fine with you?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes still a bit wide, expression still a bit too careful. "John...may I kiss you?"

John felt a stab of something hot in the pit of his stomach.

"Yeah," he said gruffly and, bracing himself over Sherlock, leaned down and pressed his lips chastely to Sherlock's. Sherlock's breath hitched and John's lips parted on reflex just as Sherlock's softened and brushed against his in a tentative movement. His tongue darted forward and Sherlock responded, lips moving in response to his. Sherlock's warm hand cupped his cheek and John deepened the kiss, tasting and pressing into Sherlock's soft, pliant mouth. The kiss was…hesitant and tender and not what John had expected.

He drew back and Sherlock's eyes were slightly glazed as they blinked open. John licked his bottom lip and couldn't keep a bemused smile from his face. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Sherlock rubbed his thumb against John's cheekbone, his strange eyes searching John's. "Please."

John sucked in a breath and settled beside Sherlock, drawing towards him automatically for a second kiss. Because it felt good for someone when you kissed them. There had to be kissing.

He slid his fingers over Sherlock's jaw and then down the smooth line of his throat, kisses lighter now, the barest touching of lips as Sherlock held his breath. For a moment John felt overwhelmed by responsibility, by Sherlock's trust, but Sherlock _wasn't_ fragile and he would kill John if he suggested otherwise.

John trailed his hand down Sherlock's chest, grazing over his nipples, skirting the bullet wound. Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath, his fingers tightening slightly in John's hair. Their noses bumped as they reconnected their kiss and John scraped his nails lightly over the soft skin of Sherlock's abdomen.

Reluctantly he drew his mouth away from Sherlock's tempting lips and kissed along his jaw, and down his throat, mouthing gently as Sherlock gave a deep breathless moan and ran his hand through John's hair and over his neck and shoulders.

"All right?" John murmured against Sherlock's pulse point.

"Get on with it, John," Sherlock answered in a strangled tone.

John sucked lightly at Sherlock's throat, and the sound Sherlock made in response spurred him on. He mouthed at Sherlock's clavicle, his chest and then licked at each of his nipples as he swept his hand over Sherlock's belly and side, teasing at the waistband of Sherlock's briefs.

His hand swept lower, brushing over a tell-tale bulge and Sherlock's breath caught. John looked down and traced the outline of Sherlock's erection, thickening in his underwear. Sherlock shivered as his cock twitched and his abdominal muscles clenched. His fingers pressed into John's shoulder.

"All right?" John murmured again against Sherlock's stomach.

When Sherlock didn't respond, John glanced up and saw him staring back, eyes dark with lust, lips parted. Desire lanced through John as Sherlock nodded breathlessly. This closeness, this intimacy was doing very bad things to John's composure. It was impossible not to respond to the feel of Sherlock's bare skin under his mouth and hands, to get turned on by Sherlock's reactions and obvious desire. The tip of his prick nudged at Sherlock's hip and John sat up, rubbing gently at Sherlock's cloth-covered erection with his palm, steadfastly ignoring the tent in his own pants.

"You've been with a man before," Sherlock murmured in a roughened voice. John didn't try to deny it. "Sholto?"

"Hm yeah. Just the once." John bit back the next words that had nearly tumbled out, _I actually _was_ interested, that first night at Angelo's. _Now wasn't the time, now wasn't about past feelings and useless confessions. There was still Mary, still his confusion and hurt and anger. This, _now_, was the only thing it could be. Tonight. Making Sherlock feel good. Forgetting for just a little while all the things that had been haunting him.

Sherlock reached for him, running long fingers down John's chest towards his crotch but John caught his wrist and put it on his knee.

"This is about you," John murmured and thumbed the damp spot forming in Sherlock's underwear at the head of his prick. "Just enjoy it."

"Confident, aren't we?" Sherlock gasped.

"Don't call me Three Continents Watson for nothing," John said and for the first time in ages flashed Sherlock a grin.

* * *

John's grin illuminated his face, momentarily dashing away the tension that had marked his eyes and forehead of late. It made Sherlock's chest hurt and every inch of his skin felt far too sensitive. Tendrils of pleasure tightened upwards from the points where John's palm fondled his erection. He squeezed John's knee hard, gasping as John bent forward and tasted his skin just below his navel.

Sherlock watched, rapt and tensing with anticipation as John mouthed his way down his abdomen, watched the way the blonde and grey of his hair gleamed in the yellow light of his table lamp, the flash of dark blue eyes as he glanced up the length of Sherlock's body, the way his muscles flexed under his t-shirt and his shorts strained around what promised to be, as suspected, a rather impressive erection.

Sherlock needed to focus. He couldn't choose; John's mouth, John's hands, the feel of John's thigh under his palm, the exact temperature of his skin and the exact beat of his pulse when aroused, the barest brush of his erect penis through his shorts— He _had_ to focus, needed to remember it was John, that it was John's hand gently fondling his testicles, John's mouth sliding over his skin, John's heated breath cooling against his lick-wet flesh. This was what John felt like, this was what it was like to be loved by John Watson. If Sherlock could keep that thought in mind, then the sparks under his skin grew and multiplied and curled, making his blood heat and his groin tighten— (don't think about the other, don't).

John slid the tips of his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's fingers.

"Yes?" he murmured against Sherlock's stomach, the sensation rippling under his skin and joining with the tempting, terrifying fact of John's hand in his shorts.

"Obviously," replied Sherlock, the word squeaking ignominiously at the end, and he batted John's hand away irritably.

Don't think, don't—

Sherlock lifted his hips and pushed the fabric down, (it's John, it's John), refusing to blush as he exposed himself to John Watson. Nothing to be ashamed of (not his fault).

Sherlock glared at him defiantly.

John raised his eyebrows appreciatively and his damnable tongue darted out (just flesh John, just transport, admittedly slightly above average in length, didn't know you liked big cocks, John). Tentatively he reached down and ran two fingers along Sherlock's length, creating a wash of arousal that flowed through the entirety of Sherlock's body.

He couldn't do a thing, nothing at all, except watch and wait for John's next move.

What John did next was squeeze some lubricant onto his hand and then run his palm, slick, cold-warm and firm, up and then down Sherlock's shaft.

"John," Sherlock said breathlessly, the visual stimuli of John's touching him combined with the physical sensation redirected several pathways in Sherlock's pre-frontal cortex.

"Yes?"

Sherlock would have kissed that smug self-satisfied look off John's face, except for the fact his muscles seemed to have been melted into molten lava.

John was doing this, John was touching him and pleasuring him. John and only John. Dark, unpleasant thoughts loomed up in the periphery of his consciousness but Sherlock slammed the doors in this room of his mind palace, locking them out.

"God, John." Sherlock was dismayed by how choked he sounded.

"I've only just started." And there was that tongue again and a glint of a smirk. John Watson—

John abruptly let go of his cock and Sherlock _did not_ make the sound that just came out of his throat. John chuckled lightly and ran his hand down over the inside of Sherlock's thigh, pushing at it gently. He looked at Sherlock questioningly and Sherlock swallowed, trepidation limping along as an afterthought to the shot of anticipation that shafted through him, and let his legs fall open.

John shifted over to settle on his knees between Sherlock's splayed legs. He rubbed both hands soothingly up Sherlock's thighs.

Suddenly he paused, eyes snapping up to Sherlock's as a shadow fell over his expression. Mouth twisting, he rubbed at a spot in the crease of Sherlock's thigh with his thumb. His erection had noticeably deflated.

Oh. The cigarette burn. It had been nothing, in the scheme of things, if Sherlock had ignored the degradation implicit in the action. All at once Sherlock couldn't bear to look at John any longer.

John exhaled, and Sherlock felt him shift back. Over then. Too much for John. Sherlock twisted the sheets between his fingers, refusing to succumb to the misery that welled up in his chest.

John cleared his throat and when Sherlock risked a glance, John gripped the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head tossing it aside. He settled back between Sherlock's knees, rubbing again at Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock stared at John's torso, compact, muscled under the small layer of evidence of his recently sedentary lifestyle, wholly, perfectly, John, and there, on his shoulder, the small pale, puckered star of a bullet wound.

"There. Now you've seen my scar too," he said lightly.

* * *

Sherlock stared up at John for all of a second before he surged forward into a sitting position, straddling John's lap as he examined his shoulder with all the intensity of investigating a crime scene. John gave a laugh and gripped Sherlock's arm to stop from toppling over.

Sherlock was very close now, one hand on John's hip to hold himself steady as he studied John's scar on both sides of his shoulder. The attention was intrusive and a bit overwhelming, yeah, but it felt reciprocal and it must be nothing compared to how Sherlock would have felt, revealing everything to John. Sherlock's stilled and John shivered as he carefully ran the tips of two fingers over the puckered entry wound scar. They were so close he could feel Sherlock's body heat. Sherlock's skin brushed against his bare chest and arm, the curve of Sherlock's neck was right there—

Sherlock pressed the tip of his tongue to John's scar. John grazed his lips against Sherlock's shoulder, tasting the salt of sweat, felt his own palms become damp with this awareness, this intimacy. Sherlock's prick bumped against his stomach and his own responded accordingly.

Sherlock turned his face into John's throat and nuzzled. Oh God, it felt amazing, John ran his hand over Sherlock's flank, arching into—

What was he doing? This was not about getting off.

John gently pushed at Sherlock.

"About you, remember. Lie down."

Sherlock sat back, blinking at him owlishly.

"Can't suck your cock with you up here," John said, aiming for levity.

Sherlock gave a huff of laughter, his mouth turning up in that lopsided grin that John had always strived to elicit. His heart thudded and he reached forward, stopping Sherlock long enough to crush their mouths together in a firm kiss before pushing him onto his back and taking his cock in hand again.

* * *

Sherlock made a humiliatingly strangled sound. Focusing was rendered impossible but that was all right because there was no mistaking who this was, this was John, and he was in John's hand and John was making the glowing pressure in his groin and abdomen coil tighter and spark under his skin.

John stroked soothing circles on Sherlock's inner thigh with his other hand, dipping to fondle his testicles, press against his perineum. John's tongue was permanently stuck between his lips and his fingers brushed lower–

Sherlock flinched and his heart thudded.

John paused and the alarming finger was instantly removed. "No? I'm not— just what feels good. Nothing you don't want."

Sherlock didn't completely understand John's intention – surely he was going to fuck him, that was the point of this – but he didn't want to be alarmed by John, wanted to have whatever John would give to him. John would go back to Mary but Sherlock would have this memory and keep it forever in a special room in his mind palace. The _other_ room, that room he couldn't lock and couldn't delete would become hidden and lost as he rerouted every sexual thought, every impulse here instead.

"No, keep going."

John swallowed, searching Sherlock's face for a moment. Sherlock frowned. Didn't John understand that it was fine, that Sherlock wanted him to have this? He should have this—

"John," he said firmly and fixed his gaze on John's face, gripped John's knee and willed himself to ignore and _not think_.

John began stroking his prick again, beneath the steady pleasure Sherlock felt John's finger return, a slick gentle pressure that didn't hurt, but all the same Sherlock focused on the lines around John's eyes and the feel of his hand on Sherlock's cock and his hips against Sherlock's sensitive inner thighs. Suddenly he knew he wanted John pressed close, this intimately against him. John pushed lightly, rubbing more than invading. It felt…good. Sherlock relaxed, melting back into the steady rhythmic pleasure of John's hand wrapped around him, the curiously (surprisingly) pleasurable ache between his buttocks, the slight push and retreat as John didn't take but simply _touched._

He fell open under John's hands, gave into the building pleasure and a want for _more_. His thighs trembled, there was an overwhelming tight, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach, rising towards his chest. He gripped John's knees and then his hands fell away to clutched at the sheets. His eyes threatened to close and he couldn't focus. He wanted to focus, needed to record every moment of this, to remember the exact shade of John's hair, the exact blue of his eyes when aroused, the exact way his muscles flexed—

"That's it, God, look at you, you're perfect," John murmured and then Sherlock groaned as John lowered his head, enclosing his erection in warmth and wetness.

"John!"

John took Sherlock completely into his mouth in one mind-blowing stroke before lifting up to bob in delicious shallow pulses in a messy rhythm with his fist. And then John's finger, slick and teasing so patiently against his entrance, breached him, sliding in just as John swallowed Sherlock down again. Despite the contrast in intent and sensation, Sherlock's pulse raced in a burst of panic, even as he pushed down in the quest for _more_. Then John quirked his finger and Sherlock's vision went white and a shout was torn from his throat as the overwhelming pleasure reached a pinnacle of sensation and his orgasm slammed into him, washing over him with wave after wave of pleasure.

* * *

John swallowed down the bitter taste without thinking, caught up in the sight of Sherlock Holmes in the throes of a fucking good orgasm if he did say so himself. Beautiful, so fucking beautiful. He'd done that, he'd made Sherlock writhe with need, shout his name brokenly and nearly sob with pleasure. He kept his mouth on Sherlock's cock until the last shudders had passed, until Sherlock's whimpers of pleasure turned into ones of over-sensitivity. John pulled off, panting, his own prick straining the fabric of his shorts. He'd just go to the bathroom, finish there. Fuck, he wanted. He looked up and saw Sherlock staring at him, lips parted, still breathless.

It was too much. With a groan he sat back his heels, thrusting his hand into his boxer shorts to fist his aching prick. In one swift movement, Sherlock surged forward, crushing their mouths together, cradling the back of John's head, cupping the side of his face, delicately holding him with shaking hands. John couldn't _not_, he wrapped his free hand around Sherlock's neck and returned the kiss, let Sherlock take his mouth, claim him, own him, as he jerked off between them. Just now, just them, just this. He was on a break from Mary, it didn't matter, this was fine, it was all fine. And then one of Sherlock's hands fell and closed over his and John broke the kiss, dragging his mouth away to press his face against Sherlock's shoulder and grit his teeth with a whimper as he fucked into their joined hands.

"Yes, John, yes," hissed Sherlock against his ear. "John, John."

John moaned, and something seemed to break inside him as he rocked against Sherlock – Sherlock Bloody Fucking Holmes, who'd faked his death and left him alone and left him to find Mary and hadn't told him anything and _hadn't_ wanted him, and couldn't even say sorry the bastard without fucking messing with his head, and now, fuck him, was giving him this, and wanting him back just when John couldn't— the utter bastard – an awful, desperate noise escaped from John's throat and he shuddered into Sherlock as his orgasm broke over him.

Absently he felt Sherlock pull him down onto the bed and he collapsed, panting on the pillow, Sherlock's surprisingly pliant body wrapped around him, holding him close.

He needed not to think. Right now, he really needed not to think. Just hold on and just – _this, _a bit longer, just for now. Sherlock curved into him with a shuddering sigh and John closed his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock's heart still raced. He held John close and felt the hormones and the chemicals of sex flow through his blood and alter his neural pathways. Altered. Irreversibly altered by John Watson.

John wasn't his though. His to keep safe, but not to keep.

John would go back and Sherlock would protect him, and Mary and the baby. But for now Sherlock could breathe him and feel him.

The darkness crept around the edges but he kept it at bay. He was at Baker Street and he was safe, with John. He pressed his lips to John's sandy hair and breathed.

* * *

The bedroom was dark when John awoke. He was alone in bed. He sat up with a start and smelt Sherlock's cigarette before he saw him, silhouetted by the street light, long body perched on the windowsill, the spark of his lit cigarette glowing where he held it out the window.

Sherlock turned towards him, watching him for a long moment.

"She's expecting your baby."

John was suddenly, very awake. "Yes."

"I'm finished with the memory stick."

John swallowed, his mouth tacky from sleep. "Right. Is there anything, anything I should know?"

Sherlock took another drag on his cigarette and then blew the smoke out the window before answering. "We need to get everything about Mary back from Magnussen's."

"Okay."

"Come to Christmas at my parents'. Bring Mary and your gun. Mycroft will be there, he'll keep her safe if it comes to that."

"Right."

Sherlock brought the cigarette to his lips again.

"I should go," said John.

Sherlock exhaled. "Yes. You should."

John hitched up his shorts and retrieved his clothes from Sherlock's floor. He retreated to the bathroom to dress and wash his hands. He stared in the mirror for a long moment before returning to the bedroom.

"Goodnight Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock looked out into the night, he didn't reply. John nodded and turned to go.

"John."

John paused, hand on the doorknob.

Sherlock turned to look at him, face shadowed. "Thank you."

John's throat felt tight and he cleared it. "I think I should be the one thanking you," he said.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. "Goodnight John," he said lightly, softly and, with a final nod, John turned and left his bedroom.


End file.
